


Substitute

by becka



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drunk Sex, M/M, Roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:44:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/becka/pseuds/becka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wikipedia says: <i>In association football, a substitute is a player who is brought onto the pitch during a match in exchange for an existing player.</i></p>
<p>OR</p>
<p>Liam takes advantage of his resemblance to David Beckham on Halloween. Louis has a lot of unresolved childhood idol feelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Substitute

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [Randominity](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Randominity/profile) for cheering me on. This would not have happened without her. <3

At first, Louis is just angry. Like, genuinely furious. He takes one look at Liam in the hotel, says, “Salt in the wound, mate,” and turns away. Liam thinks he’s joking, but Louis proceeds to ignore him for the entire party, slipping off to grope at Niall’s codpiece or mess with Zayn’s hair every time Liam approaches. And it hurts, a bit, although less after a few Japanese beers he can’t pronounce. It’s a party, and there are plenty of other people for Liam to chat to, dance with, and a few hours in, he’s nearly forgotten that Louis isn’t speaking to him.

He’s not really expecting it when Louis shoves into him, drags him by his collar to the empty stretch of hallway past the toilets. It’s dim and grimy, and Liam braces himself to get punched. He knows more about how to take a hit than Louis does, and he’s tipsy enough to calmly accept it as Louis breathes heavily and stares at him, squinting up at Liam and working the front of his shirt between sweaty hands.

“You’re my fucking idol, you know,” hisses Louis. “Like, since I was a kid. Since I didn’t even know what an idol was, all I wanted was to play like you.” He leans up into Liam’s face, so close that Liam whacks his head against the wall trying not to go cross-eyed. “Fucking master on the pitch. And Christ, so fucking fit.” He lets go of Liam’s top with one hand, reaches down to cup his dick.

Liam yelps. “What? Lou, it’s just me. I’m not, like. I’m not actually him.” 

“Shut up, Liam. You brought this on yourself.” Louis’s feeling out the length of his dick, and Liam’s cheeks burning hot; he can’t help getting hard as Louis’s fingers work him, stroke up his length, reach underneath to cup his balls.

Liam’s pretty sure he didn’t, and he starts to protest, but then Louis sinks to his knees, and Liam’s tongue sticks in his mouth. Louis’s eyelashes flutter in the shadowy mire of his makeup as he tips his head down, and the dark paint around his mouth has smeared away, making his lips look brightly pink against his pale skin. There are little trails of fake blood down his chin, and Liam touches his cheek without even thinking, leaving streaky fingerprints behind.

Louis licks the corner of his mouth. “Learned to wank after matching Man U play when you were on,” Louis says. “Got so fucking hard and I couldn’t help touching. The way you moved on the pitch, like bloody poetry. Followed you ever since. Wanted you to move in me that way.” 

Liam’s breath catches, and he gulps like a fish for a moment as Louis paws at the waistband of his shorts. Louis doesn’t talk to him like this, all serious and low, hoarse with wanting. Liam doesn’t deserve it, the stark confession, the manic light in Louis’s eyes. None of it’s for him at all. But if Louis needs this, Liam will let him have it. Louis drags down his shorts and looks up, licks his lips again. “Go on then,” says Liam, like he thinks Beckham would, gruff and firm, and Louis shivers and sways forward to kiss the tip of Liam’s cock. He parts his lips around it, licks over the slit, and Liam’s dick jumps against his mouth, flushing even harder. Louis cups a hand over the shaft, smoothes his thumb along the underside, guiding Liam for his mouth, taking him wetly in.

Liam slides a trembling hand into Louis’s hair. It’s stiff with dye, and there’s so much of it now he’s grown it out, a proper mane for Liam to grab onto as Louis licks at him, teases the edge of his foreskin and takes him deeper. Louis’s mouth is slick with spit, and Liam can hear him swallowing, hear the slide of his cock over Louis’s tongue. His heart is beating so hard he’s shaking all over with its frantic rhythm.

Louis pulls back, lets Liam’s dripping cock slip from his mouth. “I used to practice all the time. Every day. I wanted to be just like you, make impossible fucking goals from midfield, make my whole club proud. I was too small though, and a bit shit at football besides, if I’m honest.” He sucks at the head of Liam’s dick again, eyes slipping closed, but there’s a sad little crease between his brows.

Liam tugs his hair until he looks up. “You’re not shit at all, mate,” Liam tells him. “You’re lovely. I could watch you play forever.”

Louis gives a little shrug, like he can’t let the praise settle on him. He swallows around Liam’s cock, bobs on it a bit until Liam’s slick all the way down and he can feel himself hitting the back of Louis’s throat. Liam strokes the fine hair behind Louis’s ear, poorly dyed and damp with sweat, whispers, “You’re lovely,” again, nearly to himself. Louis can’t argue with his mouth full.

Liam’s balls tighten, and he groans thickly, trying not to thrust deeper, letting Louis set his own desperate, sloppy pace. Louis swallows again wetly, and Liam feels the motion of his throat from inside. 

“I’m close,” he says, almost apologetic, stroking over Louis’s hair, letting Louis fuck himself faster on Liam’s cock. He hitches his hips forward, can’t help that small motion as he starts to spill, spurting over Louis’s lapping tongue, letting go of Louis’s hair as Louis pulls back to swallow. Louis rests his forehead against Liam’s belly as he sucks him through every last shudder of his orgasm. White paint is smearing on Liam’s shirt, but he can’t bear to push Louis away when Louis obviously needs whatever this is, holding Liam in his mouth until he’s painfully sensitive and going soft. “Lou, Louis, mate, I’m sorry. I need to stop.” 

Louis pulls off slowly, sits back on his heels and cups a hand over his own hard dick, the shape of it obvious in his jeans. His eyes are still closed, and his makeup is wildly smeared, rubbed away completely across one cheek. Liam realises he can’t make it worse at this point; he reaches down to cup Louis’s chin, thumbs over his jaw. “Come here.”

Louis’s shaky on standing, looking everywhere but at Liam, the dark thatch of his hair falling into his face. Liam dips in to kiss him, and Louis balks, pulls away and then sways closer on second thought. He fits his lips to Liam’s, lets Liam work open the zip on his jeans to get at his dick. He’s so hard already, like he might have come just from sucking Liam off, just from imagining Liam was someone else. Liam strokes him steadily, feels Louis’s breath stutter against his mouth. It doesn’t take more than a minute before Louis whimpers and starts to come, adding to the mess on Liam’s shirt and smearing more makeup across Liam’s cheek as he nuzzles in close. He’s pliant and quiet and hardly like Louis at all. For once he feels small as Liam wraps an arm around his waist and pulls him in for a cuddle.

“Should I have picked a different costume?” Liam asks.

Louis rubs his cheek against Liam’s in a greasy white smear. “Nah. Reckon this one did all right.”


End file.
